Four Shame, Sherlock
by Atlin Merrick
Summary: It's possible Sherlock may feel no shame. At all. Ever. John's still not absolutely sure about this, which is why the good doctor enjoys testing his lover's limits, seeing exactly how far he's willing to go.
1. John's Jumper

It's possible Sherlock may feel no shame. At all. Ever.

John's still not absolutely sure about this, which is why the good doctor enjoys testing his lover's limits—well, his sexual limits—seeing exactly how far he's willing to go. And though he suspects he should feel guilty about it, the boundary John most enjoys seeing Sherlock push up against is sex with inanimate objects.

Well not, you know, inanimate objects like spatulas or cucumbers or anything _weird._ And not _sex_ really, just more a series of delicious masturbatory episodes, if you must put a label on it. In the last couple months, for example, there's been four especially interesting times John has dared Sherlock to—let's get euphemistic—"make love" in front of him to:

_One of John's Jumpers_

The first time it happened (there have been other instances by now) it was kind of sweet, almost tender.

It basically started one rainy morning in the sitting room, with a languid Sherlock stretched out on the sofa, plucking the strings of the violin, now and again murmuring suggestive things in a bid to distract his blogging doctor a few metres away.

John tuned out most of the interruption until Sherlock said something particularly wicked. Though he continued typing, a smile did ghost over his face and that was all Sherlock needed to amp up his seductive little monologue, trying to turn the doctor on, getting himself hot-and-bothered instead.

John let him ramble another five or ten minutes, fully aware of what Sherlock was doing to himself. Then, as he finished up his post, he had a small moment of…inspiration. Knowing Sherlock's odd penchant for his jumpers, John stripped off the one he was wearing, tossed it to his sweetheart and said, "Here you go, the ghost of John. Have at it."

When Sherlock sat up and started to tug the warm blue wool over his head, John said carefully, "No. No. Have at _it."_

Sherlock looked at John and then slowly smiled a beautifully innocent smile, a child-like smile, a smile not even a little bit perverse. He laid back down, the jumper clutched in his hands. Then, holding his lover's gaze, Sherlock opened his mouth, tucked in the tip of one sleeve—on which he proceeded to bite—and then with both hands he slowly slid the rest of the jumper down, down, down between his now spread thighs.

And proceeded, of course, to thrust against it. In absolute silence. Still never looking away from John. For his part John wasn't sure where he wanted to look more: at Sherlock's bared teeth _biting,_ at Sherlock's long neck _arching,_ at the hands between his legs _pressing,_ or at those slender hips _rolling_ up and into a cozy knitted bundle that John may or may not have been slightly envious of.

In the end John simply took in the whole gestalt for as long as it lasted, and because this was Sherlock we're talking about, it _lasted._ Well of course it did, because Sherlock not only didn't look away from his lover, he barely seemed to blink, so intent was he on watching John—"I'm not really in the mood, love"—_get _in the mood.

Only once he was sure he had every bit of John's attention, mentally _and _physically, did Sherlock slide in the one absolute, guaranteed sexual fail-safe when it came to the good doctor: Sound. But just one. A tiny desperate growl from the back of the throat.

When John dragged his tongue across his lower lip and slid his hand into his pajama bottoms, Sherlock thrust his hips up into that soft, cuddly, innocent jumper a few times more, and shook through his orgasm in absolute silence.

John? John was _almost_ as quiet.

He was utterly silent as he watched Sherlock come. He said nothing as he watched Sherlock come back down to earth. He made not one peep when Sherlock slid off the sofa and _crawled_ toward him. And the sound he made as Sherlock, on hands and knees, disappeared beneath the table? Very small.

When Sherlock tugged John's pajama bottoms down and took his cock in his mouth and started sucking, however, all bets were off. And speaking of _off,_ the sounds John made as Sherlock got him there, well quiet is really the exact opposite of what they were.

* * *

><p><em>The story is<em>_ called "__Four__ Shame" for a reason. There'll be four examples of times Sherlock (or is it John?) showed no shame. The next one may or may not involve the skull. Just sayin'._


	2. The Skull

_The Skull_

John's not sure why he thinks it's Sherlock who has no shame, when it's _John_ who keeps asking Sherlock to do the things he's doing. Shameless may be the word John wants to use for Sherlock, but apparently the word for John may be spelled _hypocrite._

Doesn't matter. What matters is John is going to keep asking and, apparently, Sherlock is going to keep _doing._

"I didn't _mean_ to do it."

Of course he didn't. When he's performing his ridiculous, obscure, dangerous, confusing, confounded experiments Sherlock _never_ means to shatter the glassware, damage the furniture, break a valuable, or in this case elbow John in the mouth as they both lunge to prevent spilled battery acid from reaching the floor.

Yet, even though he didn't mean to do it, he'd still done it and John had a split, swollen lip to show for it, a very tiny acid burn on the inside of his wrist, and a good dose of righteous indignation to sort of cap things off.

Sherlock wasn't making that indignation any better by sitting on the very edge of the couch and meticulously tucking a blanket a little tighter around his reclining lover. John grunted and threw the blanket off. "It's a fat lip Sherlock, I'm not feeble. Or tired. Now let me up."

The detective tugged the blanket back in place, effectively holding the doctor in place. "You've got a burn, too." Contrite expression. More fussy tucking. "You do know I didn't mean to do that, either?"

As soon as Sherlock's hands stilled, John tugged the blanket down again, sighing. "It's okay. Really. It's not the first time."

Now it was Sherlock's turn for righteous indignation. "I have never hit you in the mouth! As a matter of fact—"

"That's not what I meant and you know it." The war of the blanket continued as they talked, the detective tugging up, the doctor tugged down.

"I'm sorry, you know. Really."

John sighed again. He knew how this would go. How it always went. Somehow John would end up soothing and clucking over _Sherlock._ That was usually well and good. John mostly liked doing that. But no, not today. His wrist kind of hurt. And his lip was throbbing. And now that he thought of it, all of this had somehow got him, you know, in the mood and so…

"Prove it."

Sherlock stopped with the blanket already and looked at John for a long, hard moment. Ah, he recognized that look. He knew how this would go. How it always went. His eyes narrowed. "How?"

John smiled, then winced as he felt his lip pearl with fresh blood. Tugging the blanket to his chin he thought a second, then pointed toward the mantle. "Kiss it."

Sherlock's rather imposing eyebrows crept high. He didn't even turn to follow the gesturing digit. "Kiss…the skull."

John wiggled more deeply under the blanket and grinned.

Sherlock did not. "Are you _completely_ adolescent?"

John's smile broadened.

"You sound like a repressed second form boy, daring me to kiss a girl."

John's grin widened, showing teeth.

"Are you ever going to get tired of these little provocations?"

John didn't even contemplate his answer. "Are you ever going to get tired of my reaction each time you let yourself be provoked?"

A smile finally ghosted over Sherlock's face. "Well played doctor, well played."

They both knew how this would go. How it always went. Very well indeed.

Sherlock stood up, looked down. John's lip was really rather magnificently swollen, and bleeding a little again. Sherlock was sorry for that. Of course he was. And maybe he was sorry for liking what John looked like right now. He wasn't exactly sure.

The tall man leaned over, let one index finger slide very gently through that pearl of blood. Then, moving to the mantle briskly, he scooped up the skull with one hand as if picking up the post. Just as briskly he took the chair to the right of the sofa, directly in John's eye line.

But Sherlock wasn't looking at John anymore. Instead he cupped the skull in the open palms of his hands, lifted it to his face and purred, "Hello gorgeous."

John's body didn't even hold a brief confab with his brain. Instead it reacted immediately to the precipitous drop in Sherlock's voice by shunting blood south. Brain and body then waited expectantly.

Sherlock gazed deep into the skull's dark, empty eyes. "You have such…" a long, long middle finger dragged over the skull's surface, "…_tight…"_ Sherlock sighed heavily, "…_very tight_…sutures."

The good doctor sucked at the blood on his lip.

That middle finger slowly…_fingered_…the jagged lines criss-crossing the skull. There was the faintest absolutely _faintest_ erotic sound in the room and John wasn't sure if it came from him, Sherlock, or the skull. Didn't matter. After a long, long time (in very subjective John time), Sherlock stilled that finger, that long, long, beautiful _finger,_ cupped the skull again in both hands.

"Now, don't be shy," Sherlock whispered, "I promise I'll be gentle. I promise this won't hurt." With that the man who quite probably had no shame, absolutely none, wiped John's blood down the skull's nasal spine, over the teeth, and along the chin. He admired his handiwork for a few moments, and then he pushed his finger between the skull's teeth with a sigh.

John actually jumped at the sound of his own groan. He clapped a hand over his mouth, held his breath, let it out silently only when Sherlock's gaze returned to the bony object _in whose mouth _he was thrusting his finger.

This time John bit his bleeding lip to halt any noises whatsoever.

That effort got no easier because Sherlock kept sliding that finger in and out and in and—_oh god._

John outright grunted when Sherlock leaned forward, shoved his tongue between the skull's sharp, dry teeth, crowding next to the finger that was still thrusting and—_oh god._

Sherlock was panting loudly now and licking John's blood from the skull. His eyes were closed but his legs were open and quite possibly they each reached down at the same time, hands sliding over their own clothed erections, cupping, squeezing, pushing and maybe—_oh dear fucking god._

Sherlock put the skull down so he could free both hands to tug open his belt and trousers. He…_put the skull down._ On his lap.

From John's viewpoint, stretched out long on the sofa, it looked like the skull's mouth must be right where his—like it was exactly in place to—like it was sucking off his boyfriend.

In reality the skull's ever-grinning mouth was a good couple inches away from Sherlock's now-free cock, but the super-genius realized what the foreshortened view must look like to John and so he—_oh god no seriously._

Sherlock cupped the back of the skull with one hand, tipped his head back, and started lustily wanking away, now at full volume.

To say that John could not undo button and zipper fast enough would be stating the ludicrously obvious. To say that he was already a slick mess what with all the pre-come would be telling you something you already know. To say that Sherlock outlasted him by a good three minutes as they both beat themselves off to rather spectacular orgasms? Well, duh.

..

Technically I'm not here. Talking to you. After _that._ But sometimes I wonder if you have any idea what it's like living with John and Sherlock. And I say John _and_ Sherlock because when it was just _me_ and Sherlock everything was a _normal_ sort of crazy.

Then, as now: Body parts everywhere. Then, as now: odd hours and odd cases. Then, as now: Experiments that either fire up my lanky genius or just, you know, fire things up. Perfectly normal abnormality.

Then _he_ showed up and what did my delectable little doctor do? He looked around awhile, figured a few things out, got the lay of the land (and got laid), and then he reached out and he _turned the crazy up to eleven._

So this? What just happened here? _In my mouth?_ Far from the most unusual thing I've taken part in, not by a long shot—and trust me, they're both long shots if you get what I'm saying.

And really what I'm saying is this: _You so damn wish you were me, don't you?_

* * *

><p><em>For those who have no idea who wrote the final five paragraphs, go read my story "Skullduggery," and say hello to Rory. You'll like her. She's…interesting.<em>

_So, the third time Sherlock showed no shame__? It's may possibly involve a certain doctor's lonely cane. (Who's the one without shame here? Sherlock? John? Me? Or is it my friend Marie, who gave me this filthy idea? I can't tell anymore.)_


	3. John's Cane

_John's Cane_

Sometimes a man stops seeing what's always been there.

Case in point: The stack of old _Punch_ magazines against the sitting room wall in 221B. That dusty, teetery stack was left of the couch, over a metre tall, and had probably been there since before the flats were built, and frankly John figured that had to stop.

Besides, there was nothing but crap on the telly, Sherlock was in the kitchen experimenting (something to do with rhinoceros hide and bitter salt) and John was bored.

So the good doctor dug out a dozen plastic shopping bags from the kitchen, told Sherlock in passing what he was doing, nodded because Sherlock's intermittent deafness was apparently in play, and returned to the sitting room to attack that stack.

Feelings of virtue and self-satisfaction accompanied the good doctor's labors and he managed to bag maybe a quarter of those crumbly, brittle magazines before something _angry_ stopped him.

That something angry would be him.

"Sherlock."

The only sounds John heard in reply were his own breathing, a dull knife scraping along a small piece of rhinoceros skin, Mrs. Hudson's radio, the rain, and perhaps his own blood boiling.

What John most emphatically did not hear was a response from Sherlock.

John stared at the stack of magazines and what was wedged behind them and he let himself get a bit more with stroppy. _"Sherlock."_

What John heard now was heavier rain, what might or might not be a sharp knife stabbing repeatedly through rhino hide and into the kitchen table, and steam coming out his own ears.

Fine. _Fine._

John yanked the object from behind the magazines—half of 1942 and most of 1943 skittered to the floor—got his foot caught in the handle of a plastic bag, tripped, righted himself, was _really_ annoyed now, strode into the kitchen swearing and _slammed_ his mother-fucking cane across the table in front of Sherlock.

The detective jumped as if shot, opened his mouth to sass John, saw what was on the table, blinked, closed his mouth, pulled his jack knife out of the table, brushed his hand over the gash as if that would erase it, tugged a small square of rhino hide over a half dozen other cuts as if John wasn't seeing him do it, put his hands in his lap, looked at the hands in his lap, and said nothing.

"You said you didn't know where it was."

Sherlock wondered how stupid you actually had to be to hide something, forget you hid it, and then leave the hidden thing permanently hidden so that eventually it could be discovered by the man you hid it from.

Apparently it took about six feet of stupid and thirty-four years worth of stupid training.

"Not exactly."

John noticed Sherlock had the good graces to sort of squeak out the words. John also noticed that he _absolutely loved it_ when Sherlock was penitent. Compliant. Docile. Finally John noticed that he was no longer angry. Yep, just like that. _Poof._

Of course he didn't tell Sherlock.

"Why did you lie?"

Sherlock looked up, but only so far as the cane on the table. "I didn't," he told it, "I just said 'perhaps you lost it' and then I pinched you. Remember?"

John's eyes narrowed. Crap. He remembered that pinch. It happened just before Sherlock took that trip to Glasgow. They were just days from becoming lovers, but neither of them even quite knew how they felt about the other yet. He remembered the pinch because it had made him smile and he'd thought at the time _ouch!_ but also, _why am I smiling?_

"I don't lie to you John. I just…" Sherlock reached for the rhinoceros hide again, turned it a little so it covered a particularly deep gouge. "…use diversions sometimes."

Okay, John was ready to admit that this wasn't fun anymore, watching his brave, bold boy be timid. He was about to apologize for his over-reaction and yet…

"I don't understand, Sherlock, why hide my cane? I wasn't even using it anymore, not after that stake out at Angelo's."

Sherlock continued to tug at that square of skin. He covered up three more gashes but exposed four. John was pretty sure he didn't know he was doing it.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock was still looking at the cane on the table. His hands had finally stopped moving. All of him had stopped moving. Which made the fast pulse in that long, pale, delicious, ridiculous neck _so much more obvious._

And just like that John was thinking what Sherlock was thinking and John should have been ashamed of what he was thinking.

He wasn't.

Still, he hesitated, then cleared his throat before whispering, "You could always…apologize."

Sherlock scraped his teeth over his lower lip, let one long finger unfurl and hook around the body of the cane. For a long few seconds each man did nothing much while through their inaction both men made sure the other one was having the same thoughts he was having.

Of course they were. At this point in their relationship that almost goes without saying. The kind of _not saying_ they were sort of doing right now.

So. Once they clearly understood that both of them understood where this was going (and yes, _it's definitely going there, _so anyone who wants to swim to shore while land is in sight might want to jump ship now), Sherlock wrapped that long finger around the cane and draaaaaagged it across the table toward him, through the bitter salt, over the rhino hide, and up against his chest.

Then he looked up at John for the first time in possibly forever.

The second their eyes met John turned and left the room.

Sherlock blinked. Probed his mind for second thoughts. Found none. Stood and followed his lover.

...

When Sherlock got to their bedroom—cane clutched in his fist—he found that John was already as naked as a, well, naked man.

Briefly the good detective tilted his head, began extrapolating the speed with which his lover would have had to move, the economy of gesture he'd have had to employ, to get _that_ naked _that_ fast, then he caught his mind doing what it was doing, gave it a sharp slap, and then promptly started wondering about blood-flow rates and the tensile capacity of capillaries because for John to get a hard-on _that_ magnificent in the time it took him to go from the kitchen to the bedro—

Okay. Right. Sherlock stopped that train of thought as well, licked his lips and realized, to his great surprise, that he was, um, a bit nervous. As in…nervous.

_And wasn't _that _just marvelous?_

Because nerves were the exact opposite of boring. John, _John_ was the exact opposite of boring. And whatever was going to happen in the next little while? That, Sherlock thought, was possibly going to be completely out of the country from boring.

While his lover did his little nervous deduction dance, John stood still, magnificently erect, and he waited. (Because John? Good at waiting. Also at erections.)

His own fevered brain, John's _screamingly loud_ silence, and possibly the alignment of three of Saturn's moons, caused Sherlock to finally get with the program and _crowd _up against John until his lover's back was against the wall. Sherlock then tucked his head down for a no-holds-barred-not-playing-around-let-me-fuck-your-mouth-with-my-tongue kiss.

When they broke a few days later it was all Sherlock could do to bite John's lip _gently,_ and then all he could do to bite only once instead of forever at the sweet, hot crux of his lover's neck and shoulder. Quite possibly he would still be there, moaning, if John hadn't started pulling at the buttons of Sherlock's shirt.

_Right. Yes._

Sherlock allowed the barest distance between John's body and his, just enough so John could unbutton his shirt and he could breathe in John's ear. Enough so John could undo his belt and trousers, and he could bite tenderly at a lobe. Baaarely enough so John could reach in and palm his cock and Sherlock could rut up against his lover's hand, and moan, "Now? _Now?"_

John nodded, Sherlock handed his lover the cane, shucked the rest of his clothes, then looked up to find John handing the cane right back.

John was handing the ca—Oh. _Ohhhhh._

Up until exactly that moment Sherlock had been presuming _he_ would be the one being soundly buggered with John's cane (Sherlock's had some pretty left-field thoughts in his day, but that one right there? A first). Sherlock had apparently presumed that being soundly buggered with his own cane was not John's style (implying that they each had a, you know, _style_ as regards being buggered with a cane).

Anyway, what had been sexy enough to make Sherlock very, very _bitey_ and very, very hard, had become—quite impossibly—sexier. The taller man leaned down, ghosted his mouth against his lover's mouth and said in the absolute lowest register he was able to reach, "For shame, John."

At the sound of Sherlock's voice John clenched both hands so hard he left nail marks on his lover's arms.

_And that was it. _

Sherlock spun John around and pressed him against the wall with his chest. He leaned over him, covered him, _bit_ him again, there, right there against the side of his soft throat and John moaned, shoved his bare arse back against Sherlock once, twice, three times, a clear and beautiful invitation, an offering, permission, oh good god yes permission.

Sherlock went to his knees then, pressed that cane hard across his lover's lower back, and without ceremony plunged his tongue into John and started to lap, thrust, push, bite, just plain _fuck_ his lover's arse with his mouth. For a minute or a hundred years—time got fuzzy and stretchy and wet with pre-come—John writhed, bucked up against that wall, back into Sherlock's tongue, teetering along some brink of sensation that lit up all the nerve endings in his body, and he forgot everything but what was happening inside him, and then he remembered very fast when he felt something hard, unyielding ,and plastic press up against the tight ring of his arse.

Breathing heavy, arms up over his head, back arched and legs spread, utterly and perfectly debauched, John froze. It was now his turn to pause for a moment of nerves.

Yet that moment slicked by, because now Sherlock was gone, but John didn't move, didn't look, didn't so much as breathe, and then his lover was back and there was the familiar sound of lube opening and then there was the not-at-all-familiar feeling again of something rigid being pressed against him and then…with three, four, five, six achingly slow thrusts, Sherlock used his own narrow hips to push the straight, wide handle of his lover's cane deep into John's arse.

When it slipped in to the hard hilt everyone in that room capable of uttering "Oh my god," did.

Sherlock looked down between them, looked at where the handle of the cane was embedded insideJohn, stared at that a good long time and then with a moan he tugged slowly, very slowly, until that unbending bit of plastic slid out—John's nails scraping at the wall—and then, crouching down a little, Sherlock canted his hips forward until his cock was pressed against the now-warm metal pole and with his hips he _pushed_ slowly until again the grip of the cane was all the way inside John_._

He did this for a long time, did Sherlock. Slowly tugging out and thrusting in, watching the lube-slick handle disappear, both of them breathing harder, faster, legs trembling, John's muscles tensing and his whole body shuddering each time the inflexible plastic scraped up against his prostate.

Neither man would come this way but neither did anything different for a long time. Instead John shoved himself back on the head of that Army-issue cane again and again until sweat poured off him, until he was light-headed from panting, until his legs shook so badly he could barely stand.

For his part Sherlock pressed one hand against the wall over one of John's, held that cane tight against his own body, fucked his lover in the arse with it as if it were his own cock plunging in and out, hard then soft, slow then fast. When he finally heard John's soft whimpers beneath his own desperate moaning Sherlock snaked his hand down between John's legs and around his rigid cock.

Now each time the hard head of the cane sunk inside John and then pulled back out again, Sherlock jerked his hand along the doctor's dripping cock. Even now he took it slow, though he could feel John's body trembling so hard he had to press his chest against his lover's back to keep him standing.

Somewhere, sometime in all this, John started begging, pleading, whispering, "Harder, harder, harder," and so his lover obliged, pounding his hips against John's arse now, driving the cane in deeper, rougher than before, until John began keening softly, then less softly, then he opened his mouth and what came out of it was loud and ragged and harsh as the good doctor came, hips bucking and muscles clenching hard around the handle of a cane he was never, ever going to look at the same way again.

...

A little while later, after John had gone boneless on the bed awhile, then after he had pulled Sherlock up until he straddled his face and had sucked greedily at him until his lover came, after _Sherlock_ went boneless awhile, curled up against John's side, well after all that John finally asked again the question that hadn't yet been answered. "Why did you hide my cane, love?"

Sherlock sighed sleepily and not for the first time (or the last…definitely not for the last), John was flustered by how angelic that face could look right after they'd…right after he'd…well, _after._

The good detective pulled himself tighter against John, ran spidery fingers slowly around John's belly button. He seemed lost in thought for awhile, but John waited. As we said, he's good at it. Always has been.

"Running around with you that night we were chasing the cabbie?" Sherlock pushed out another sigh, this time it sounded almost exasperated. "John, up until then that was the most fun I'd ever had in my life." Sherlock patted John's stomach gently, talking pretty much to the little nub at its center.

"Afterward I was worried you'd—well, I didn't want you to…to remember the cane. I didn't want you to need it again. I wanted you to run with me, to…" Sherlock frowned at his own memories. "That sounds…well yes, it was selfish." Now he was petting John's little outtie with the tip of one finger, as if to apologize to it. "I think, maybe, at the time, I thought I was helping." Sherlock's frown deepened, his tone darkened. Quite suddenly he was angry. At himself. At that idiot back there, in the past. "God I was a prat. How the hell did you—"

John's mission, should he choose to accept it, was to derail such self-effacing chains of thought. It was a mission he was pretty sure he'd agreed to take a long time ago, quite possibly that night, the night he last needed his cane. All right then, as such it was time for diversionary tactics.

Rather dramatically John arched his back, making Sherlock's long digit dig hard into his belly button. The good doctor thrust himself up into that skinny digit several times, shouting lustily, melodramatically, and with great fervor, "Yes, yes, _YES!"_

He then promptly faked a belly button orgasm—not as hard as it sounds for a naturally good actor, which John apparently is—with lots of thrashing and keening and so on and then, after he fell back on the bed still and 'spent,' he gathered his stunned lover close, and said, "Oh, that was nice. Now shut up my love, and go to sleep. I have to think up more filthy things for us to do."

Sherlock blinked, could not for the life of him remember what he'd been saying, closed his eyes, opened them, closed them again, opened them again, and whispered softly against John's neck, "Is it really really awful that now I'm wondering what would happen if I hid your mobile?"

* * *

><p><em>Well, good god. That was a bit unexpected. Please to share your thoughts on this matter?<em>

_Okay then. Next time John and Sherlock will discover there's a bronze statue at the Victoria & Albert Museum in London that kind of looks like John (truly, there is and it does), and so Sherlock, he's going to be inspired to…well. You'll see. One thing is for certain, someone is going to be shameless._


	4. The Age of Bronze

_The Age of Bronze_

"Touch it."

"Are you insane? I'm not going to touch it."

"It's said to have healing powers."

"Are you listening to yourself?"

"I—"

"No, I'll answer that: You're in love. You're insane, you're in love, and you are not listening to yourself."

"I—"

"And you're not touching it. I'm not touching it, and you're not touching it either. It's frightening and it's radioactive. Did you hear that part Sherlock? About the unstable atomic nuclei that are emitting ionizing particles like positrons and gamma rays? I mean, you know, spooky science fiction-y _gamma rays?"_

"Oh my god John."

"What?"

"You know the technical definition of radioactive."

"Yeah, so?"

"That's sexy."

"Well then."

John grabbed Sherlock's arm and tugged him away from the radioactive mummy. Why the Victoria and Albert Museum wanted to add a radioactive mummy to their exhibits and why Sherlock wanted to be in the same room with it much less touch the damn thing John couldn't say, but he was and he did and he was so dragging his feet right now.

"Why are you dragging your feet right now, Sherlock?"

Sherlock scuffed his size tens along the slick museum tiles and looked behind him. "Because I want to touch it. I want to look at it. I think I may be in love with it." The detective maybe did or did not giggle.

"I knew you were. And I also know that you're the only person in London—possibly the world—who can get drunk on _weird. _Completely rat-arsed."

Sherlock giggled again, swayed then tripped, just like a real live drunk would. Then, also like a real live drunk, he spun out of John's grip, started marching back toward that mummy and so help him John was pretty sure the detective was throwing kisses out ahead of him, like a little bride's maid tossing rose petals.

"I have to touch it John, I have to touch it."

John jogged after Sherlock and debated: Fling himself onto his lover's back, or tackle him around the legs? It was going to hurt either way, so might as well—

Sherlock spun around drunkenly.

"And I'm not lisping so I'm _not_ drunk John! That's technically impressionable!" Sherlock frowned. "Immobile!" More frowning. "Impossible!" Sherlock waggled a long digit. "Ha! Woops!"

That last bit was because John had grabbed Sherlock's free hand while Sherlock fascinated himself with the other, and tugged him out of the room.

"Why can't I touch it Joooooohn, why why why why why why?"

"Because I like it when you don't glow green and have two heads."

Sherlock tripped over his own feet again and thought hard about what John said. "But I do have two heads, technically all men do if you count—"

A small, parchmenty old man—sort of a precursor to the mummy, actually—appeared suddenly in the doorway to the Really Old Things Room (the good doctor could never remember the correct name) and stared at them.

John quite possibly squeaked, blushed, then mumbled, "Good morning, sir," to the curator of the radioactive monstrosity behind them.

"She's beautiful!" Sherlock said loudly, eyes wide and glowy. "However my boyfriend won't let me _examine_ her because he's _nervous_ and thinks the _radioactivity_—which I told him is almost nonexistent—is going to affect my head, but he didn't say which one."

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock frowned at John. "What?"

The little old man nodded as if every day he talked to giant six-year-olds who made innuendos about penises and got drunk on weird.

John does not know, on days like today, how he survives past breakfast. Which he has not actually had. Because they'd needed to get here before the museum opened. As a matter of fact it was still dark o'clock outside.

"I'm sorry sir, but I'm a doctor and I really don't think it's safe for my colleague—" and here John gestured to the empty space beside him—

"Sherlock!"

The man so named was a couple dozen feet distant, hunched over the tiny sarcophagus so deeply his arms and head appeared to be missing.

_Radioactive fallout already,_ John thought, marching back into the room.

"Sherlock Holmes I am going to drag you from this room if you don't stand up right now and get out under your own steam."

"She has perfect teeth, John, and freckles!"

Despite himself John leaned over, peered. "I thought she was black."

"She is. She was. But her skin tone overall was lighter than her freckles. I'm amazed such detail was retained, it's quite extraordinary."

"However, she is still radioactive. I can honestly feel my skin crawling."

Sherlock huffed. "You can feel no such thing. It takes at least six hours for even mild symptoms of radiation poisoning to make themselves felt, and even then it'd likely just be a bit of nausea and vomiting."

Sherlock stood, straddled the small casket, peered carefully at the mummy with his pocket magnifier. "Diarrhea, headache, fever, dizziness, hair loss, and low blood pressure might occur but only after moderate exposure. And it takes severe or very severe radiation poisoning to lead to bloody stool and—"

"Shut _up, _Sherlock."

The detective closed his magnifier with a snap. "John, you're cranky."

"It is five in the morning. I haven't eaten. I'm sleepy. And also possibly radioactive." John scratched his arms, extended both, then stared at them. As if looking for…

"What are you looking for John?"

"Bugs. Radioactive bugs. Like in the movies."

Sherlock shook his head, stood up. "Fine. _Fine._ I'll come back later. By myself. Are you happy now?"

John sighed. With long suffering. Because his suffering? For this man? It was long. "Fine, Sherlock. _Fine._ You be all detective-y and brilliant and deductive and I'll just sit here until you need me. If you need me. I don't even know why I'm here. Sometimes I think you just take me along like a security blanket."

John settled into a chair, crossed his arms grumpily, closed his eyes.

"Which is more likely to spread a cold John, shaking hands or kissing?"

The doctor made a disrespectful noise. "Pshhft! Shaking hands of course."

"You're a very smart security blanket John," Sherlock whispered against his mouth. "That's why I take you along."

John smiled through the kiss, but didn't open his eyes. "You're still sleeping on the couch until you're not radioactive."

Sherlock's scowl was wasted on the good doctor. "You know perfectly well—"

John giggled.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, continued his research.

...

Over the next hour the good doctor answered three medical questions for Sherlock and was just waking from his second catnap to find his lover sliding on leather gloves.

"Perfect timing, John. I've just been to see Mr. Kisawa. All done."

John stretched, actually a bit refreshed. "Great. Breakfast?"

Sherlock tucked his hands behind his back, dressed his face in a bright, innocent expression.

John narrowed his eyes. He loved that expression. Very boyish. Very sweet. He hated that expression. He had exactly no willpower against it.

John looked intently at the ceiling. "What? What now? We're not leaving are we?"

Sherlock said nothing. This, John new, was Sherlock's bid to get him to _look at him._

"I'm not looking."

"Look at me John."

"I'm not looking, not looking, not looking. You want to take home the radioactive lady and do _things _to her, don't you? You want to put her on the kitchen table—where I eat my food, which already jumps quite enough hurdles before it gets to my plate, what with the heads that ooze and the leaky takeaway containers with stomach acid in—"

"—that was just once and I didn't realize how fast the acid would burn through the—"

"—and the crickets that chirped quite nicely but also _pooped—"_

"—I told you to cover that salad when you put it—"

"—so no, you don't get to bring the radioactive lady home, no matter how adorable the face—"

"—and beside—adorable?"

Both men stopped talking. John stopped staring at the ceiling, frowned ferociously. "Damn it."

Sherlock grinned, made The Face. "Is this it? Is this the expression?"

John scowled at the ceiling again. "No. _No."_

Sherlock slid way, _way_ into the doctor's personal space. "I don't want to bring radioactive ladies home." He kissed one side of the doctor's exposed neck. "I just want to look at a little bit of art." He kissed the other side of the doctor's neck. "Mr. Kisawa told me about a bronze I might like." Sherlock let his teeth gently scrape over John's skin. Smiled when a regiment of goosebumps marshaled along John's jaw. "Five minutes?" The very tip of Sherlock's tongue trailed along those goosebumps. "Please?"

John Watson sighed at the ceiling. "_Damn_ it, Sherlock."

...

"There are fifty or more statues in here," the good doctor groused.

Sherlock scanned the cavernous basement, started walking. "I'll know this one."

"It better be gorgeous. Better yet does it cook? Will it make me toast?"

_"I'll_ make you toast."

Sherlock was a good dozen feet distant before he realized John wasn't following. He turned.

John shook the daze out of his eyes, started toward Sherlock. "Sorry, it was as if you said 'I love you John' in an entirely new language."

Sherlock rolled his eyes again, continued on, glancing briefly at each sculpture. Suddenly he stopped. "Well, hello gorgeous."

John ambled up. "This it?"

Sherlock slid his arm around John's waist, tugged him close until his back was to Sherlock's front. Whispering in his sweetheart's ear the detective said, "Use that clever brain of yours my love, and tell me what you see."

John's getting better at this, he knows he is, but it still feels like a test each time Sherlock asks. He always hated failing tests.

Okay then. The statue stood on a plinth about ten centimeters high. It was made of a dark bronze. As a matter of fact it was called _The Age of Bronze._ So far so obvious. What else? Well the statue was naked, male, a bit petite. It had a nice build, short hair, a rather pert nose, and—

"Oh."

Sherlock laughed softly against John's ear.

"You think he looks like me, don't you?"

"Yes I do. Mr. Kisawa thought so as well."

Sherlock rubbed his face in John's short hair. "Do you know what else I think? I think you deserve a thank you for your patience today."

John leaned against his lover, felt the other man's arms tighten around his waist. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"If you're thinking maybe I should _get on my knees,_ John…go down on that delectable piece of art while you watch then yes, I am."

John blinked noisily a few times. It must have been a sort of Morse code because Sherlock said, "Then again maybe I'm thinking something else entirely. What might I be thinking, John?"

It took a moment for John to think through what he was thinking. Yes, okay, what he was thinking was really almost exactly the same thing except, um, a little different.

"Well, I was sort of visualizing you, over there, behind him. Doing him. You know. From behind."

Sherlock mouthed at John's hair, softly sighed. "Oh, that sounds…shameless."

John is sometimes amazed at how quickly they can get each other to this place. This riled up and breathing hard place. It really was a rather magnificent skill.

Sherlock slid his hand down John's belly and between his jeans-clad legs. He cupped the half-hard bulge there, squeezed and tugged and moaned in John's ear until "half" was no longer applicable. For either of them.

"What…" John's throat was very dry. "…what about Mr. Kisawa?"

Sherlock started a slow thrust against the high curve of John's arse. "Busy. So busy."

John's reply was two-fold and silent. He nodded. Then he pressed his bum hard against Sherlock. For a moment he thought very hard about getting on his hands and knees and—

—Sherlock stepped away, stepped around, stood in front of him. With a slow smile he shucked coat, gloves, and scarf, dropped them on the floor at John's feet. He tugged his shirt from his trousers, unbuttoned it, was about to drop it to the floor too when John took gentle hold of Sherlock's wrists, spread his arms. "No, leave it on. The trousers too."

Sherlock smiled, pretended to struggle in John's grasp, but they both knew he didn't want to break free. Groaning, he rutted up against John's belly then spun away as if more than a little drunk.

A moment later he was standing on that plinth face to face with the sculpture. "Hello gorgeous," he said, pressing his forehead to the cool metal, sliding one hand down until it cupped the effigy's arse.

He smiled as if he were alone. Alone with John. Then he opened his mouth as if to speak, but instead swiped his tongue across the bronze's lips. The sharp sound of the doctor's groan surprised them both.

"Oh…John…" Sherlock breathed, lips brushing hot against cool. "John…oh John…." A slow pump of the hips punctuated each sigh.

A slow slide of his hand down between his own legs punctuated John's.

"I want…to…" Sherlock spread his legs either side of the bronze's thighs, slid low so his trousered cock pressed against that of the sculpture. "…fuck you John." Sherlock tipped his head back, neck arching, back curving into a beautiful bow, slid back up with a moan…"Oh yes,"…down again…up…each thrust punctuated by sound, a breathy sigh, a groan, his lover's name.

For just a moment, maybe two, John closed his eyes and listened. Sherlock can talk a mile a minute, say a dozen obscure things the good doctor doesn't understand, but he does understand this: The word John is precious to this man. It's as vital as clues and sex and sleep and mysteries. It _feeds_ a place in Sherlock that before was starving.

A smile flickering fast over his face, John opened his eyes. _And somehow this? This craziness we do? It feeds me._

Then all rational thought faded as Sherlock moved slow round the figure, trailing fingers over its dark bronze chest, belly, its thrust out hip, then around to the small of its back…and here he stopped.

Sherlock gazed at that pert bum, dropped a pale hand down, ran long fingers up the cleft of that very John-like arse. "John…" it was the barest whisper now, "Oh…John."

Sherlock slid his other hand along the bronze's waist, then up to its chest, so close now that his body pressed the length of it. He nestled his face into the curve of its neck and seemed to softly kiss.

"Want…to…want…to…" he murmured, thrusting against the bronze, holding tight to it with one hand, undoing his trousers with the other. "…_fuck…you…John."_

Seconds later trousers and pants went south and Sherlock's cock? Definitely due north, now lubed with the detective's own saliva and nestled between the firm slit of the statue's arse. About then Sherlock settled down to the unambiguous work of lustily fucking the inanimate.

Head thrown back once more, legs spread, Sherlock drove his cock hard against a thing that would not yield, moaning for all the world as if he were deeply inside warm flesh.

The sight should not have been sexy, which is maybe why it was. It was _so unSherlock._ Trousers and pants pooled at his ankles, bare ass _(bite it John)_ peeking from beneath his crisp white shirt, he looked for all the world like some pervert having a public wank—a ridiculously good-looking, well-dressed pervert, yes, but still a pervert.

Which so-help-him was so stupidly hot John had an erection that actually hurt.

And then, as always, now and forever, there was the sound. Sodomizing that thing as if he could not get enough, Sherlock was moaning so lavishly John almost wanted to make him stop.

_You are going to kill me. With that beautiful voice you are going to kill me. And as I draw my last breath I'll probably be shouting, "Louder, Sherlock, oh my god louder!"_

Instead of making Sherlock stop, John got up there on that plinth, stood on the opposite side of the statue and got those detectivey hips pumping harder when he did something he'd never done before: He imitated Sherlock.

"Oh god, oh god, oh god," he sighed low, dramatic. "Oh Sherlock…_Sherlock." _The detective whimpered. As precious as John's name is, so too is Sherlock's own coming from his lover's mouth.

Sherlock slid one hand from the sculpture's waist and onto John's, tugging him hard against the unyielding bronze. Breathing heavy from an open mouth he stilled, waited, then sighed raggedly when he felt John's hips start to thrust.

"Oh _god_ yes," Sherlock breathed, cock thrusting up slick and hard in the cleft of the sculpture's ass, "oh dear god yes."

Some vague, distant part of John's brain realized that it should have felt weird, humping up against a statue while fully dressed. A statue they agreed looked like him. While his lover sort of fucked its arse. Yeah, it should have felt very, _very_ weird.

Jean-clad cock rubbing against one of bronze, John was only aware that it felt very, _very_ good.

The good doctor reached over the statue's shoulder, fisted a hand in Sherlock's hair, pulled him into a kiss, tongues frantically taking turns mimicking in mouths what they were each doing with hips—pushing, pumping, thrusting, hard, harder, fast _oh god yes faster._

With a deep-throated growl Sherlock warned _now, now, come now_ and so John spread his legs for more leverage, slid his hand down between his cock and, well, _his_ cock and kneaded and massaged and pulled at hard flesh through trousers and pants. The nails of both of Sherlock's hands dug into his waist, Sherlock's tongue probed his mouth, and maybe it would still have taken John another minute to get the friction just right but then, exactly then, Sherlock's own orgasm tore unexpectedly through him and Sherlock's sharp desperate cry was really, _really_ quite enough to be going on with. John came hard in his pants thank you, a few seconds after his lover rammed home and came not-quite in the arse of a completely innocent bronze that really had no clue what the hell was going on.

_This fourth chapter __(that yes, went on forever don't ask me why) was supposed to be the last, but…_

_There once was a fic __named "Four Shame"_

_That really should have stopped when they came,_

_But some readers yelled, "Don't!"_

_Atlin said, "I won't!_

…_and then…um…yeah, limerick floundering. So anyway, "Four Shame"—which was supposed to be only four chapters—will have a fifth 'bout Mycroft's brolly because crocodile_eat_u's brain is glorious and she went there. Hard. P.S. If you'd like to see the statue that's at the center of this shameless little escapade, Google _The Age of Bronze_ or visit my Tumblr at AtlinMerrick dot Tumbler dot com and search for "age of bronze."_

_In the meantime, since I'll probably continue this theme of sex-with-the-inanimate in future stand-alone fics, tell me please—what should the boys *lady-like cough* fuck next?_


	5. Bonus Chap: Mycroft's Brolly

**(Warning: Implied incest)**

_Mycroft's Brolly_

John likes Mycroft. Really he does.

But Mycroft is a Holmes and it's in their genes to be presumptive, apparently. Imperious, obviously. And bossy as god damn hell? Evi-fucking-dently.

It doesn't help that they swan about, these Holmes boys, all delicate, gesturing fingers and pale angles and aristocratic grace, so that you quite nearly _want_ to do as they tell you.

Nearly.

But to paraphrase that old hippie anthem, there's a time for taking orders and a time for giving them, a time for knuckling under and a time for saying, "Fuck you Mycroft, get the hell out."

John probably would have said yes if Mycroft hadn't waited until Sherlock was gone to come boss him around. And he would probably have said yes if Mycroft had just asked instead of assumed. But he'd done one, then the other, and had irked the good doctor so soundly that words had been had, stabby glares exchanged, and one tall swanny representative of the British government had sailed out of that flat so fast he'd actually forgotten his umbrella.

Which was how what happened next, happened next.

"He bullied you."

"Shut up, Sherlock."

"Now do you understand?"

"I said shut up, Sherlock."

John snatched the folded paper from his lover, threw himself onto the sofa, and yanked the pages open so hard one tore off in his hand. While Sherlock did the exact opposite of shut up, John uttered four consecutive swear words under his breath.

"He's always thought he could tell _me_ what to do." Sherlock threw his coat and scarf onto the coffee table. "It's because he's _old…er._ And because of those absurd tests—as if they mattered. Well now you see."

_Those tests._ The intelligence evaluations both Holmes boys had had when they turned thirteen. Strange little gifts from their strange parents. And, as it turned out, ammunition for a lifetime of 'I know better than you, Sherlock,' gazes from Mycroft because he'd come out eighteen points ahead of baby brother.

"Yes, now I see," John grumped as Sherlock dropped new case notes onto their shared desk. "Now I see that Mycroft is exactly as brassy and bossy as you are. One of these days you're both going to drive me to drink."

Sherlock huffed and gestured with delicate damn fingers and aristocratic grace and said, "You should really learn to let things go, John."

John was about to utter four consecutive swear words quite loudly when Sherlock, busy swanning off toward the kitchen, spotted something leaning against his favorite chair. "What the absolute fuck is that?"

John was so startled he actually put the paper down. Sherlock rarely swore outside the bedroom. And he _never_ swore in the style of a certain John Watson.

Two sets of perhaps-they're-blue-perhaps-they're-not eyes looked at the thing propped against Sherlock's favorite sitting room chair (and what does it say that John's chair is the comfy, stuffed red one, and Sherlock's the one with long chrome bones and smooth beige leather?).

Leaning against one of those silver bones was Mycroft's umbrella.

John pursed his lips, briefly pleased he'd managed to so fluster the elder Holmes that the man had actually forgotten something that for all intents and purposes was a third arm. Then John unpursed his lips so he could grin, briefly pleased that karma had been so kind as to immediately bite Sherlock in the arse.

John lifted the paper again, could not stop the gloat. "See what I mean? Annoying."

Sherlock waved a long-fingered hand, imperious, as he stalked over to the tall, thin representation of three quarters of the British government. "Shut up, John."

The good doctor huffed as he watched Sherlock snatch up his brother's brolly. And just like that, _just like that_ John H. Watson got a gorgeous, filthy idea.

"Fuck it, Sherlock."

The consulting detective spun round, umbrella in hand and said, "I was only repeating back what _you_ said to _me_ not thirty seconds ago. No need to get imperious and bossy, I—"

The super genius finally clued in. "What?"

John peered over his newspaper, not at all aware of the half-naked page-three girl staring at him in a sort of smirky dare. "You heard me."

It's true. Sherlock heard just fine. And usually he distained meaningless conversational fillers that refuse to clarify. However, he couldn't stop himself from uttering again, _"What?"_

John hadn't started the morning horny. As a matter of fact it'd been four or five days since they'd had sex and, though his libido was more consistent than Sherlock's, they'd been so busy lately that frankly he hadn't even thought about the lack until just now.

Why just now? John didn't know. Didn't care.

Instead of clarifying, the good doctor put his paper down, held Sherlock's gaze with his own, and did that thing Sherlock always watches—always—he licked his lips, wide, flat tongue darting out and back in again.

Then, instead of saying anything, Sherlock did that thing John always watches—always—he opened that lush mouth of his a little, the better to accommodate the uptick in his breathing.

For a moment both men thought about moving past this moment. _Look, skip it, let's just go get some lunch,_ John might have said. _Fine. Then I'll need to come back and study these case notes for a few hours,_ Sherlock might have replied. But they didn't.

So that's how what happened next happened, and how John learned something he probably should have known already but didn't.

But it was fine. It was all fine.

The long, lean umbrella still held aloft in Sherlock's fist slipped slowly through his fingers. After awhile the ferrule came to rest soundlessly on the floor. The detective held the umbrella aloft with the tip of one long finger against its handle. He blinked a slow gaze at John.

John stared back. Let the paper slide to the floor. Did that licking thing again.

After a few heartbeats Sherlock looked down, head cocked to the side as if mildly surprised by what he saw. A few more heartbeats and he began walking unhurriedly around the umbrella, first this way, then that, a tall man slowly marching 'round his own little Maypole. As he went in leisurely circles, Sherlock's expression surprised John.

Because there was no expression.

John had expected (hoped for? could he be that petty?) a sneer on lover's face, a quirked brow, a roll of the eyes.

Instead John saw other things. A steady gaze so focused, so inward that the good doctor thought, _He's remembering things, is Sherlock._ _Or replaying an old, old conversation in his head._

John's learned many things living with the world's only consulting detective. He's learned how to tease the man until he lets go of whatever burdens he's clinging to. He's learned to trick him into talking when he doesn't want to speak, or into listening when he doesn't want to hear. And John's also learned how to tell when it's time for teases and tricks.

The answer? Not now.

Now it was time to let Sherlock unfurl himself around that umbrella and through the silence maybe tell John a few things.

Sherlock opened his mouth right about then. As if he'd tell John a few things.

And he did, but not with words.

At a very slow and stately pace Sherlock walked around that firmly closed brolly, and as he did he licked his lips; the way a man does when his throat's gone dry.

As if to underscore the point, Sherlock swallowed and by the look of it it was slow, difficult.

John watched, deducing, because like burping and sneezing and eating everyone does it, everyone _sees._ Just some people do it rather better than others. John? He was pretty good at deduction by now. He'd been getting lessons.

Just then Sherlock gave him something more to see, squatting down in front of that brolly, finger still placed just-so over the curved handle, keeping it upright so the detective could look at it from toe to tip.

And he did.

With a tilt of the head he looked down at the wooden ferrule, otherwise known as the-part-everyone-drags-on-the-ground. An abused area, it should have been scuffed and worn, but this was Mycroft's umbrella so of course it wasn't. It was buffed almost to a sheen, with just a few small scratches betraying the fact that it had circumnavigated the globe eight times with its owner.

Sherlock licked his lips again, tongue poking out of his mouth for a long, long second and then his gaze traveled up along the umbrella's tightly-wound black canopy. John has seen this particular umbrella in use, so he was justified in wondering how it could not only look as if it had never been unfurled, but how it could look damn well _pressed._ There wasn't a single wrinkle in its crisp folds.

John wondered how the brain of a man that meticulous worked.

At about the time he was having that thought, a man with a brain that meticulous shifted his gaze up, to the brolly's curved and glistening handle.

This was when John noticed Sherlock's eyes were not expressionless anymore, that behind them a brain was blazing, firing, burning through a hundred thoughts at once and somehow the thought that was clearest—it must have been, because it popped into John's head as if someone had spoken it in his ear—was the fact that Mycroft's hand, his beringed right hand, wrapped around that handle every day.

John flicked his gaze around the room for an instant and then returned it just as Sherlock leaned forward and dragged his tongue along the handle of his brother's umbrella.

He didn't do it once. He didn't do it twice. He did it over and over until John lost track of exactly how many times he did it, and until John had plenty of time to poke around in his own brain and see what he's seen many times: that the handle of that brolly came to the exact same height as Mycroft's cock.

_Well fuck._

John would like to say the realization was so obvious as to be anti-climactic, he really would. As a matter of fact it was one of his favorite saying, one even Sherlock liked so much he'd stolen it from him, but this? This wasn't obvious except in hindsight and now that he'd seen it John could not unsee it, not ever.

Which was fine.

_Which was fine?_

Yeah, actually. It was fine.

Because frankly, living with Sherlock had taught John a hundred thousand things, perhaps a hundred and ten, if he was feeling generous, but one of the most obvious was this: Sherlock says and does what the rest of us _wish_ we could say and do.

Stated more plainly, many of us repress what we think and feel, Sherlock Holmes does not.

So this? While he didn't see it coming, no, the fact that Sherlock has had/does have a sexual _thing _for his brother actually didn't surprise John quite as much as the fact that he hadn't noticed it until now. Or maybe some part of him did. Maybe that was why he'd said it.

_Fuck it, Sherlock._

And because these **thoughts** were new and fresh and had many, many angles from which to look at them, John took a moment to look at them through the lens of his own desire. He thought of Mycroft sexually and he wondered what he'd feel. The answer: nothing much. He found that the idea of Mycroft in _that_ way didn't do anything for him.

The same couldn't be said for Mycroft's little brother.

Twenty? Thirty? How many times had Sherlock dragged his tongue up that handle, around it, over the graceful curve of its top? And when had his breathing become so loud that John could hear it even over his own?

John didn't have time to figure it out because about then Sherlock rose from his crouch. As he did he looked at John.

And without words asked a dozen things.

John nodded in comprehension. And when had that happened? When had he gotten this good at understanding Sherlock? No clue. But he did, he understood him just fine and so John responded in wordless reply.

_I see what you did there,_ he said._ I know what it meant, what it means, what you wanted, or maybe still want._

_I'm not particularly bothered by it no, _he added,_ and yeah, that surprised me for a minute. But I know what I mean to you. I know that what we have is rare._

_Keep going,_ he said at last, then whispered it soft and clear, one hand sliding down, palming himself through black jeans.

_Well fuck._

That time it was Sherlock's thinky thoughts.

Because as disinclined as Sherlock was to meeting expectations of normal behavior he knew good and well what normal was. How do you think he knew how to flaunt it so consistently?

So Sherlock knew when he was wildly on the other side of normal, and he knew the risks that come with that. Up until John, he didn't give one flying fuck about those risks.

Then there he was, a brave little man who somehow managed to fill every room he entered even if Sherlock was already in it. And then _there John was_ and Sherlock suddenly cared a little about being normal. And learned pretty damn fast that he didn't have to be.

Because John gave him permission. Every day, in a dozen ways, John said over and over: _Do it. It's okay. I signed on for this. Be. Just be…you._

Well that was easy enough.

Sherlock smiled at John. _It's just you and me,_ that smile said. _Even if we brought in a cast of thousands, John, it'll only ever be you and me._

And right now, one black brolly. A stand-in. An imperious ghost.

Sherlock sank to his knees again, then slid down, down, down the length of the umbrella until eventually his mouth was an inch from the floor. Finally he turned, eyes closed tight, and kissed the ferrule softly. Then softer still. Again and again he pressed his mouth there, breathless and tender.

After a minute, maybe two Sherlock stopped a long while, mouth open, breathing soft shaky breaths against that glistening wooden tip. Then carefully, as if it were something very delicate, Sherlock licked it.

And groaned.

He licked again, less tentative, more tongue. And again. The fourth time he moaned, high and faint. Then Sherlock pressed his cheek to the umbrella, then his mouth, the bridge of his nose, his forehead, like a cat he pushed his face over and over against that black, unmoving thing, panting, sighing, then keening softly as he bared his teeth and bit.

Just a little.

"Yes." It was a whisper, as faint as sighing. It was permission. Longing. Desire. It was John.

His lover, on his knees, bowed before an imaginary man, smiled and echoed him. "Oh yes."

Finally Sherlock began the long, slow journey back up the lean length of that umbrella, keeping contact by mouth, cheek, neck, even the hair on his head. Yes, a cat, a pale cat pressing and kneading, pressing…and needing.

He stopped moving just below the curve of the umbrella handle, tilted his head back, and inserted the tip of it into his mouth.

There was nothing particularly comfortable about the posture Sherlock was in. Spine rounded, neck arched, head back as far as it would go, he looked like a man…servicing something. And it clearly didn't matter what that service did to him.

Sherlock rose a little, pushed the handle deeper into his mouth. He grunted, as if it was too much, but he rose anyway, taking in more, then again until John stopped breathing.

Precisely then Sherlock spread his legs and pressed the heel of his hand against his cock. Growling in the back of his throat, he bared teeth and bit spit-slick wood not at all softly.

Oh it was more than time.

With a soft hiss he slid his lips from the handle, rose slowly on shaky legs. Finally he stood tall, imperious gaze imperious as he gazed down at that umbrella.

It took a couple blinks before John realized Sherlock was moving backward, had hooked the toe of his shoe around the leg of the beige chair, was tugging it round until it faced the sofa. Once canted toward John, Sherlock collapsed amidst the cool cushions.

Immediately he slouched low, legs wide in an inelegant sprawl, arms spread as if crucified, the brolly clutched carelessly in one hand.

He sighed heavily, eyes half closed, for all the world so very bored.

The large bulge in his trousers said otherwise. Loudly.

Oooooooh and that bulge was tempting. Enticing. Irresistible. So much so that Sherlock's free hand began sliding toward it, moving slow and circumspect. Yet when his hand reached his thigh, Sherlock stopped, left it there, cock untouched but straining, wanting, hard.

A little bit, then a little more—in slow degrees Sherlock's hips began moving…just the barest side-to-side motion. Then small movements guided by the flexing of his thighs. Finally tiny, slow pumps up against nothing.

Sherlock pressed his head hard against the back of the chair, mouth open, eyes closed. "Please."

One hand slowly fisted around the umbrella. The fingers of the other dug into his thigh. _"Please."_

Sluggishly, as if drugged, drunk, dazed, Sherlock dragged that brolly around the arm of the chair, until it was pressed to the side of his leg.

And there he stopped. And stayed so very still for nearly a minute. A minute during which John was pretty sure he would catch fire. Or shout. Or maybe beg. With a great deal of needy, desperate swearing.

Actually, John knows how lucky he is that his lover can, will, and does make sex last. Oh yes, sure, absolutely, he knows. But sometimes luck makes him so hard he hurts.

Finally John unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans, shoved them carelessly to his thighs. With a soft sigh even he barely heard he slid his hand inside his briefs and over the warm, heavy flesh there.

Eyes still closed, Sherlock smiled, and started thrusting his hips again, the barest canting up, little thrusts, just little ones…

…then he tugged the brolly between his knees…his thighs…then hard, hard, very hard right up against his crotch.

He hissed in relief, the sound precisely the one he makes when the drugs in a nicotine patch at last hit his system.

He wrapped one long leg around the umbrella, pulled it tighter against his cock. Whispered something John couldn't make out, only that the words were soft, desperate, and there were so many of them. A litany then, maybe a recitation, proof, evidence.

Finally from that faint jumble one word emerged, soft and clear, whispered in time to each upward pump of Sherlock's hips: "My, My, My…"

It's rare for John's orgasm to rush up hot and unexpected, but this one blazed through him fast and sharp. Before he could release his cock to hold the fire off he was coming, thick, hot spurts shooting up over hand and belly, a guttural groan trapped behind gritted teeth.

The adrenaline and pleasure burned through his over-stimulated body, arching his back hard, then melting muscle and bone just enough to leave him spent, soft, then deliciously indolent.

With a relieved and wanton little giggle John slid low on the couch, legs sprawled, mouth open and panting, and waited for the rest of the show.

Which was still in progress.

Though now the program changed, just a little. Because he no longer needed to take John with him, Sherlock at last settled down to the business of going full steam ahead in fucking his brother's umbrella.

Though not before a little more foreplay, a bit of…lovemaking, if you will.

Sherlock pressed the length of the brolly against his chest, belly, face. He wrapped his long arms around it, clutching close, holding tight. He kissed it everywhere his mouth could reach, stroked it with cheek and hands. And again the faintest, feathery, desperate sound, "My, Myyyyy…Ooooh."

Then, boneless as any cat, Sherlock slid from the chair and to his knees on the floor. Then there was no more messing around.

Sitting back on his heels, hips canted far forward like some sort of rock star about to croon the final lusty notes of a ballad, Sherlock jammed that umbrella against his hard-on and started thrusting up against it like there'd be no fucking tomorrow.

But there _was _right now, and right now was for wide-legged rutting, and open-mouthed keening. It was for digging nails into pliant black cloth as if it were pale flesh you could mark with your need, it was for throwing back your head and thrashing, as if it all felt so good it hurt.

Right now was for thinking your lover's name but for saying your brother's…and then for moaning your lover's name like the perfect incantation it is but for looking at this long, lean thing your brother touches, holds, maybe even caresses every day, this thin, elegant representation of something you've always wanted somewhere in the back of your mind but have never had and maybe never will, but that's fine—

Sherlock grunted.

—it's more than fine—

Sherlock clamped his thighs tight around the umbrella.

—you have something better—

Sherlock thrust, plunged, pumped that umbrella hard and fast between his clenched thighs, then did it faster still and as hard as he could stand.

—you have John, you have—

_"John!"_

Sherlock fell forward onto hands and knees and rode out his orgasm a good long while on top of his brother's forgotten brolly.

"He rejected you, didn't he?"

Stretched out on the sofa, draped heavy over his lover, Sherlock pressed his other ear against John's chest. The lazy lub-dub of his beating heart made Sherlock sleepy and somehow wide awake.

"You're not a super-genius, John," Sherlock murmured in time with the slow pump beneath his ear, "with arch-enemies to keep you sharp." Sherlock started to keep time with a soft tap of his fingers against John's side. "So you have no right to be this smart."

John danced his own fingertips over Sherlock's spine. The only place he was "this smart" was right here, with this man. As if super-genius was somehow a bit catchy. As if it leaked out of pores like sweat, smearing all over another person's skin. "And yet here I am, doing it just the same."

Sherlock sighed. He opened his mouth, breath warm across John's chest and said, "It all started when I was fourteen…"

_It'll be awhile before Sherlock finishes th__at sentence, but now, at last, I have a doorway in my own canon through which to introduce a bit of Holmescest. Thank you a href="_ _.com/"Crocodile_eat_u/a, I blame and praise you for this. All you had to say were two magic words: Mycroft's brolly._

_Though this completes _"Four Shame, Sherlock,"_ I'll continue this series of *cough* the-boys-fucking-the-inanimate but with stand-alone fics; if you have ideas, send 'em on. We've got a few suggestions so far, including the Union Jack pillow, John's firearm, and Sherlock's violin. Kindly share yours?_


End file.
